Now that I have written this letter, indeed, there seems no real occasion for sending it, but I will not deprive you of such small amusement as you may derive from a perusal of its pages.
love from your,
Campaspe.
Having finished the letter and addressed the envelope, Campaspe dipped her fingers into a shallow bowl of water-lilies that stood on the desk and with the moistened tips wet the gum of the envelope and pressed the flap closed. Leaving the letter for Frederika to post, she rose and descended to the garden.
Campaspe's garden, at the rear of the house, was enclosed in high brick walls on which were trained espaliered fruit-trees. Dwarf shrubs forced their miniature trunks between the mossy crevices of the flagstones of various sizes and colours that paved the ground. Over these a quaint tortoise of considerable size and incredible age, named Aglaë, wandered in a disconsolate manner. There were a few comfortable chairs and, in one corner, under the shade of a spreading crab-apple tree, a table. In the opposite corner rose a rococo fountain which Campaspe, entranced at first sight, had purchased in an antiquary's shop in Dresden. This fountain gave the atmosphere to the whole place. On a low pedestal, in the midst of a semi-circular pool, a marble Eros, blindfold, knelt. His bow drawn taut, the god was about to discharge an arrow at
